


Ides of March

by cyprith



Series: Modern Magic AU [9]
Category: Maleficent (2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 11:12:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1855966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyprith/pseuds/cyprith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Ides of March mean tax season. And there's nothing like tax season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ides of March

**Author's Note:**

> accio-firewhiskey prompted: There’s nothing like tax time.
> 
> Modern Magic AU. And can I just tell you guys how excited I am for this development?
> 
> (The ravens, by the way, are almost a year old. Quiet a bit of time passed during Moments, As the Grew)

Maleficent glared at the computer. Heedless, her smug little browser continued to blink. Waves of emails filled her inbox, stacks upon stacks of paperless paperwork, all announcing the Ides of March.

Tax season.

 _Wonderful_.

Closing her eyes, Maleficent took a deep breath. She pushed away from the desk, rolling to face the window. The temptation to set the computer alight didn’t quiet fade, but distance brought consideration—namely that a fire in the CEO’s office _created_ more paperwork than it destroyed—and with no small effort, Maleficent unclenched her hands.

There would be an audit, of course. Not even _filed_ yet, but she could feel it coming like a storm. Every year, regular as clockwork. Because of course— _of course_ —she’d cut a corner _somewhere_. Nothing personal, they’d say, just policy. Or, as the _lovely_ gentlemen from last year had put it—“ _Well, it’s almost traditional for you folk, isn’t it? Working around human rules?_ ”

From her doorway, Diaval laughed. “Have you put yourself in time out, then?”

Tense and aching, Maleficent’s wings twitched. Her head throbbed. The sound of young, squabbling ravens filtered to her through her open door.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she said, “Have you perhaps missed the date?”

Even with her eyes closed, Maleficent could practically _hear_ Diaval smiling. “As a matter of fact, no. I cleared your schedule for the rest of the day.”

 _“What?”_ At this, finally, she turned to face him.

She found Diaval grinning in the doorway, utterly angelic but for the streak of red in his runes and the trio of ravens perched on his shoulders.

“Balthazar’s handling the Accounting nonsense. He’s well capable—as you know, that being the reason you _hired him_.”

Maleficent pursed her lips. “It’s as though you’re attempting to communicate, yet when you speak, all I hear is madness.”

Another man might have worried for the future of his career. Three years in her employ, Diaval only laughed. “Nice try, but I know you _far_ too well for that. You and I are going out.”

“Oh, are we?”

“I’m saving you from yourself. Give it an hour, you’ll thank me.”

“And this is in no way motivated by the lovely spring day and the box of birds—sorry, _ravens—_ that you’re carrying?”

“Perish the thought. I’m _rescuing_ you.” Utterly shameless, the man grinned. “Although, since you mention it, it _is_ time for their first flying lesson.”

Maleficent shook her head. Of all the people she could have hired off the street, of course— _of course_ —she hired him.  

“My hero,” she deadpanned, but despite herself, a smile snuck through before too long. “Let me get my coat.”

—

“No, see, put your wings like this,” Diaval said, possibly for the thirtieth time, readjusting Hugin’s little body. “And then you just—”

Landing next to him, Maleficent watched with arms crossed as the bird spectacularly failed to fly, possibly also for the thirtieth time. “I could carry one with me and let go,” she offered.

The look of indignant outrage Diaval shot her rather made her day. “That is a _terrible idea_. What kind of mother are you?”

Maleficent cocked an eyebrow at him, watching the chicks hop and stumble over his outstretched arms. With his shirttails catching the breeze and his half-head of hair sticking up at all angles, Diaval resembled nothing so much as a very determined, if somewhat backwards, scarecrow.

“Well, they’ll never learn if you don’t let them try,” she said. “Also, I am not their mother.”

Diaval recoiled. “Of course you are,” he snapped, every ounce serious. And then, returning to his fluffed and irritable chicks, “Shh, children, don’t listen to your mean Mummy. I won’t let her _drop you from the skies.”_

Maleficent rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t help but smile. Ridiculous man. Utterly ridiculous. However had she found him?

“Very well,” she said. “As you like,” and took to the skies herself.

—

For almost an hour, Maleficent swooped and wove through the currents, weaving patterns with wind and clouds. Below her, Diaval flopped along the ground—sometimes a man, sometimes a raven—always with three chicks flapping and hopping in his wake.

Watching him, Maleficent found herself smiling. Her heart beat a little harder in her chest—warm and happy, far from the worries that usually plagued her. And—and she _was_ happy, wasn’t she?

The realization caught her off guard, startled her unwary. Without quite meaning to, she swept up in an unexpected wind, high into the clouds again.

 _Happy._ Madness, of course. Happiness was a child’s emotion, better suited for long summers and half-imagined adventures. She’d lost all that—finished with it long ago, and better not to dwell on reasons why—but here, somehow, it found her again.

Feeling not quite herself—feeling a contented stranger, some grinning fool—Maleficent watched her strange, remarkable assistant take to his wings again, and an idea occurred to her.

Without warning, she dove.

Down, down she plummeted, aiming for the unkindness fluttering in the deep of the field, until—at the very last moment—Maleficent snapped open her wings, swooping so low Diaval startled back into his man-shape and the wind of her passing tossed ravens like leaves.

Cawing, the children fumbled after her, little wings flapping. Hugin and Munin tangled in each other’s paths and never made it from the ground. Maleval managed a few feet in the air before tumbling down again. Red faced, bellowing incoherent curses, Diaval sprinted along behind the lot of them.

Maleficent landed running, but laughing so hard she couldn’t keep her balance. Arms pin wheeling, wings akimbo, she fell and splattered into March-cold mud.

“Serves you right, you wretched thing,” Diaval snapped, but jogged over just the same. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. I took far worse spills as a child,” she told him, standing, laughter catching in her words. “You should have seen your face.”

Diaval glared, his ears and cheeks so red he looked as though he might catch flame.

“You scared me right out of my wings and all you can say is _I should have seen my face_? I thought you’d _crashed_!” he shouted. But though he crossed his arms and pursed his lips, a mischievous twinkle lit in his eyes. “You really shouldn’t go so high, Lef, what with your wings gone so weak and—”

Before he could finish, Maleficent crashed her wings together, battering him backwards in a rush of wind and sound. Screaming and flapping, the children caught up, just as their father toppled ass first in the mud.

Sweet as any storybook fairy, Maleficent smiled, “You were saying?”

But that spark in Diaval’s eyes only grew brighter, burning wicked through the dirt that splashed across his face. “That’s a terrible twitch you’ve got there,” he said, epitome of innocence. “Bet it really slows you down.”

Distracted by his grin, by the promise in his eyes, Maleficent didn’t see his hand move until too late. Fast as hunting, Diaval nailed her smack in the chest with a grassy glob of mud, and cawing laughter, flew away as fast as his wings could carry him.  

Counting to five, Maleficent watched him go. If he wanted to _race_ , well, it would be quite rude not to offer a head start to someone so _small_.

But at the end of five, there her mercy ended. Maleficent leapt from the ground and into the air, each beat of her wings a harnessed gale. Diaval flew low, dodging between rocks and roots in hopes of foiling her pursuit. But she didn’t need to follow his path to catch him. Maleficent soared high, gauging his trajectory from miles above. And then, taking careful aim, the sun on her back, she dove.

Diaval didn’t see her until far too late. In the breath of a second, Maleficent caught him, her hands loping under his wings, drawing him up and into her chest.

“Doesn’t seem to bother me at all,” she called, grinning, wind tugging the words from her mouth. “But heavens, Diaval—so _heavy._ I can hardly carry you. I think I’ll fall.”

Diaval peered up at her, a challenge in his flinty eyes. And then, of course, he shifted.

Finding herself with a sudden armful of—of _man_ , Maleficent nearly _did_ drop him. But he looked so smug, so _certain_ in himself, that she couldn’t let the challenge go. Adjusting her grip under his arms, Maleficent pumped her wings and _flew_.

They must have looked a sight—the CEO of Moor Inc. dangling her assistant by the armpits over a patchwork field, both of them muddied to the eyes and a trio of young ravens screeching their alarm below—but for once, Maleficent didn’t care. She didn’t think. Lost in the moment, she swooped and dove, weaving through the headwinds and the breezes below.

When at last her arms began to tire—not her wings, _never_ her wings—Maleficent coasted, meaning to land. But Diaval glanced up, his face so flushed and happy, and shouted, “ _Let me go!_ ”

So she did.

For a long moment, Maleficent watched him plummet, her heart thudding in her throat. But at the last minute, Diaval changed, whooping joy, his cry melting into caw, his jacket into sleek black wings.

Laughing, breathless, she followed in his wake.

—

When at last they tired, sprawling in the knee-high grass with a collection of ravens muttering irritably around their heads, Maleficent had long forgotten anything to do with taxes. She found herself watching Diaval instead, tracing with her eyes the line of his contented smile.

And she wanted—she _wanted_ …

Catching her watching, Diaval turned his head. “We should do this more often,” he said.

It would be so easy, Maleficent found herself thinking—so easy to just _lean over_ , to cover his mouth with hers.

Swallowing, she sat up. With a bit of magic, she cleaned the mud from her clothes. As an afterthought, she cleaned his, too.

“Yes, well. They’ve not learned to fly, yet,” she said, standing, putting distance between herself and this new madness. “I imagine we’ll be back until they do.”

Diaval didn’t move. He lay in the grass with his head pillowed on his arms and smiled up at her, his gaze so warm she felt its passage like a hand against her skin.

“Yeah,” he said, soft as hope. “I guess we’ll have to.”


End file.
